


Azkaban Dreams

by Sionna_Raven



Series: Background fics to 'Snacks and Letters' [13]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sionna_Raven/pseuds/Sionna_Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rather random thoughts of a man who is mad enough to stay sane....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Azkaban Dreams

 

The tide changes every six hours, Don't go swimming on ebb tide. You'll be pulled out into the open sea. The cries of the seagulls are different whether they circle the rock at high tide or plunder the shore for crabs and mussels at ebb tide. 4 tides a day, 30 days a month, about 12 months a year, it's so easy to keep track of time. Keeping track of time keeps me sane.

Swimming on ebb tide, being pulled out into the open sea, away from here. Where to? Into the sea, into nowhere, into death to join the others. James and Lily, I've let them down. I have sworn before God to protect their son and I have run away, when he needed me, left him with Hagrid, not even asking where he would take him. I can't face them without knowing what became of Harry other than that he lives. He lives and Voldemort is gone.

Bellatrix is still calling for her master. She doesn't believe he's gone for good. Not even the Dementors can take away her belief that he will return, her happy thought that keeps her alive and sane. Her joy is darkness and death, curses and torture. The Dementors can't thrive on it. They want real happiness, warmth and life and hope.

I can't remember, when I let go of hope completely. I never had much. What could I hope for? In the beginning, when there might still have been a chance that one of my friends, that someone who knew me, that Dumbledore might question the evidence, I couldn't find comfort in hope, because all I could feel was grief and regret. I don't need Dementors to see James' dead body in the hall, the Dark Mark over the cottage.

When I accepted that no one would come to listen to my side of the story, there wasn't much left for the Dementors to take from me. I started to change into Padfoot for the simple necessity to eat. Some of the others never managed to swallow the food and died of starvation. Padfoot doesn't care too much. He sometimes even catches a rat, fresh meat to keep me healthy. I wonder how the rats have come here and how they survive. Were there times when they brought the prisoners in by ship? I don't know, it's probable.

For all the old stories I've been told as a child, Azkaban was rarely mentioned and never in detail. Who wants to hear such stories? Who wants to tell them? Muggles believe bad people go to hell. Bad wizards go to Azkaban, before they are allowed to move on. I wonder, if the fires of hell are an improvement to the Dementors' cold. I won't find out. I am innocent. Will there be fires in the land of the dead? Warm, cosy fires? Bright red and gold flames dancing merrily?

The Dementors are stirring at the door. Is the thought of fire a happy thought?

No, it isn't.

Fires of torches lighting a dungeon, party lights.

Mudsquad parties!

Warmth in Azkaban, heat of hate!

Dementors kept out!

Real pain!

Real torture!

So much pain that James' image disappears. Will they ever find out that they help us to stay sane?

Have we become a different kind of Dementors, living on hate, feeding on pain - our own pain?

There hasn't been a party for months. Am I getting bored? No, I don't need them anymore. I have enough hate inside me to last for life. I rarely change to myself anymore, only before the human guards bring food and water. Padfoot lies on the blanket and listens to the seagulls. The rats avoid my cell. They know death awaits them. I have lost weight. Padfoot can pass through the bars. The dementors don't notice. Kill the rats, but don't eat too many. Freedom to roam the fortress. The other prisoners think I'm a hallucination or they call for me to kill them like I kill the rats. Maybe they call for the hallucination to kill them. Who can say?

One tried to tell the guards. They laughed. The old stones have bred more than one Dark creature. Who cares about a ghost dog?

I've found the way to the battlements, fresh air and the sight of the night sky. I watch the stars. I've found Sirius and Regulus in late winter. I've let him down, too. I should never have let them take him. I should have been there. What happened to him?

I asked Bellatrix once, but she said we killed him. I know we didn't! She lied to hurt me.

There's bread for breakfast, almost fresh and identifiable chicken broth. They give me a bucket with clean water.

“Wash, Black! The Minister is coming to see you.”

The Minister. I overheard from the guards that Millicent Bagnold has retired. Last year or the year before last? I haven't seen Crouch since he came to visit his dying son in 1983 nearly ten years ago.

Would anyone come to see me when I die? Everyone I can think of is dead.

James would have come. He had never believed I could be a traitor. He died for not believing I was a traitor. He died trying to prove my innocence.

Regulus? I wasn't there when he died. I've never been there, when he needed me.

My mother? They came to tell me she died. I never wanted her to come. Maybe it's a good sign she didn't. It had meant that she believed the accusation.

Remus? No, he never questions anything. He accepts. He is the one person who has more than circumstantial evidence. I must be guilty, because he knows he is not.

Dumbledore? There was a time, when I thought he might. I wished he'd come to accuse me, but he wouldn't waste time with me. I could have told him about Peter.

What reason has Crouch for wanting to see me now? Don't hope! Don't ever dare to hope. Hope feeds Dementors.

The man who enters my cell isn't Crouch. I remember him, Fuzzy....Fudge. He was there when I was arrested. He seems nervous, circling his lime green bowler in his hands.

No use trying to talk reason with him, but maybe he can tell me something about the world, about Harry.

“Welcome to my humble abode, Minister. I'm afraid I can't offer you much hospitality. In fact I can't offer you anything, not even a seat.”

Fudge looks around, shrinking away from everything in the room. I do understand him; I avoided touching anything either, if I had the choice. A guard brings a chair for the Minister. I think they call it a chair. I haven't seen one for about 12 years.

Fudge doesn't speak. What the hell does he want?

“May I inquire about Bartemius? I somehow expected him, when they announced the Minister was coming to see me. Everyone said he was the coming man, but then we are a bit out of reach for the latest news here.”

The man is sweating and getting more nervous by the minute. He's scared. Scared of me? How did that idiot get Minister?

“I was chosen to succeed Minister Bagnold two years ago. The public didn't seem to think Crouch was the right man for the job.”

Merlin! They think you are?

I smile slightly. “You don't mind me saying that I agree with the public opinion.”

He doesn't seem to know what to answer. Instead he rubs his arms. “It's quite chilly in here, isn't it?”

“Do you think so? I guess I got used to it over the years. London has always been rather hot and sticky in summer.”

Fudge stares at me, as if I was mad. “I think it's cold. I could do with a cup of tea right now. Do you want one, too?”

A cup of tea? I'd die for one. Don't let him see it. Don't hand them new weapons to torture you.

“I wouldn't mind to keep you company.” I try to be cool.

I must be dying, hallucinating, dreaming of paradise. Just to smell hot tea, hold a cup, feel the warmth. It's such a wonderful dream, don't wake me up. The dream continues, two cups of steaming hot tea, milk and … sugar! I close both my shaking hands around the dream cup. It's so hot I can hardly hold it. The first sip burns my mouth. Can dream pain be so real and feel so good? I get lost in my dream. Fudge is talking.

It's a dream, nothing can happen to me. It's not real. I ask for the Daily Prophet sticking out of the pocket of his coat. Dream-Fudge passes it to me with a generous gesture. I stick it under my blanket.

“It's quite a relief to see a prisoner who is interested in the outer world. You do understand your crimes, don't you, Mr Black?”

“I know what I have done and I regret it.”

“Good, Mr Black. Keep up with this sentiment and you will find it easier to accept the justice of your punishment.”

“Can you tell me what became of my godson?”

Fudge cringes.

“Harry Potter is safe at Hogwarts under the protection of Albus Dumbledore. You won't have any chance to finish your murderous act of treason.”

Fudge takes his leave and Stanwick vanishes the empty cup from my hands.

“Holidays are over, Black. See you tonight. Party time.”

I knew the dream would end, but the Prophet remained.

It's still some time until the nightmare begins. Time to have a look at the newspaper. I open it and see how wrong I have been. The nightmare has already begun. The rat with the missing toe is on the front page.

I scream, but nobody listens.

“He's alive! He's at Hogwarts!”


End file.
